


keep it coming, i’ve got time and money

by leadbitter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bristol City F.C., Bristol Rovers F.C., Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: Matty Taylor, year by year.





	keep it coming, i’ve got time and money

**Author's Note:**

> my attempt at writing matty taylor from his own perspective, practically impossible as he baffles me on many levels
> 
> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and not intented to represent or speculate on the real lives of any person, only using their likeness to write a story

**2015.**

 Five days before the Final, Matty goes into town. It’s a stunning day, the best May can be. Bristol Harbour looks gorgeous in a way it rarely does. He’s with Jake Gosling and it’s like nothing can touch him here, still basking in the elation of reaching Wembley. He could jump into the Avon right now and he wouldn’t move an inch upstream, wouldn’t get even as far as Hotwells. Matty is anchored to the ground in a way he didn’t even think was possible.

“Mad innit?”

Matty twists his body to face Jake. Their legs are over the concrete wall, arms resting on the peeling railings along the harbourside. The water below is murky, reflected blue from the cloudless sky. Bristol has descended into chaos with the heat. 20 degrees and a bit of sun and they all go mad. Half the population of the city are without their tops on, tinny music sounds from every group of teenagers sat around on the concrete. Cans of cider and Carling. Ice creams from the van the other side of the water. It’s almost beautiful.

“What is?” Matty replies, tapping his nails on the metal.

“This,” Jake gestures around him. “All of this.” and Matty has a feeling he doesn’t mean spring in Bristol.

“Yeah,” He just says. “Yeah it is.”

Because it’s hard to explain, the crushing expectation of it all. The fans love them, at the moment. Stormed the league and very nearly won it, a lack of luck being their undoing, but still. 7-0 vs Alfreton, and then Forest Green in the semis, wins in Nailsworth and Horfield.

Fucking Wembley.

“Mate,” Matty starts, kicking his heel against the wall, then sighs. “What if we don’t win? What happens then?”

Jake snorts. “I don’t know Tayls. Ask fucking Linesy or Macca. Someone with a bit more wisdom.”

“Yeah but they’re not here so i’m asking you.” Matty knows he’s right. He’s not sure Gos has ever been serious in his life.

Jake sighs and pulls himself up using the railing, leans out and looks across to the other side of the river. “We’ll have to go again, won’t we? Try again next year.”

_Go again._

  


There’s something special about this group, something different and strange, and so fucking wonderful.

Bouncing around the changing room, three crates of Thatchers and one bottle of champers in the middle of the room and if that doesn’t say Bristol Rovers he’s not sure what does. Browner on the bench singing ‘We are the Champions’, Andy looking like he’s about to pass out with relief, Ellis with his arm around Locks grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Suppose he has really.

For the first time in a year, Matty is relaxed. And not pretend relaxed either, not like those evenings in the winter with Ellis, wrapped on the sofa together watching The Apprentice, both pretending that the pressure isn’t pushing them to their fucking limits.

Manse putting the ball down on the spot, breathing in and then banging it top corner. Collective exhale, half the stadium losing it in more relief than anything but it doesn’t matter what the motivation is, just the result. And a win is a win. 1-1 and extra time and penalties but who fucking cares eh?

“Oi Tayls!” A lilting Newport accent calls out. Ellis comes bounding over to where Matty is sat on the bench with a can in his hand, taking it all in. “Want a go with the trophy then?”

The trophy: all glistening silver, and blue ribbons, and it’s theirs. _His._

Matty looks up at Ellis, bright eyes and a different person to the one he met 10 months ago.

Laughter bubbles out of him. “Yeah,” He says with a grin, making grabby hands at the cup. “Pass it here. You’re taking the photo.”

 

  
  
**2016.**

It’s so cold. January is always so cold. The training pitch is frozen over, solid as a rock, almost impossible to walk on, let alone run.

Darrell jogs over to where they are all huddled by the door, trying desperately to retain some kind of heat before they all go and freeze their tits off for three hours. Linesy has his arms around Ollie, chin on the top of his head. Ollie’s grinning and squirming away. Matty thinks it’s probably some kind of inside joke they have, the two local lads, but it ends up looking suspiciously tender.

“C’mon lads!” Darrell shouts, breathing into his hands and rubbing them together. “Get running and you’ll be toasty in minutes!”

He stares at their skeptical faces for a minute, contemplation written on his features.

“I’m not being funny gaffer,” Ellis starts, the only one who can get away with speaking frankly without getting a bollocking. “But it’s like minus five. Can we not just do indoor training?”

Someone snickers from behind Matty. Probably Browner. Darrell sends a glare at whoever it was.

He closes his eyes briefly. “We’re gonna do indoor training-” He’s cut off by a cheer, Matty included. It really is _that cold_.

“Oi oi oi!” Darrell yells over them, gesturing for them to shut up, calm down. “Not, _not_ because you asked Harrison! I was going to suggest it anyway.”

He’s got that faux angry face on, like he's annoyed but really he loves them, that glint in his eyes. He’s not the most affectionate bloke ever, but you can tell, you can _tell_ , when he cares. Matty thinks he probably cares more than any manager ever has.

Ellis nudges Matty’s shoulder and smirks. “Yes boy!” and he turns away to walk back inside, happily bouncing.

It's infectious, Ellis’ cheeriness. Matty hides his smile in the snood he’ll have to take off soon.

Two days later, Ellis scores 4 four goals against Northampton Town. He’s man of the match.

  
  


Final day of the season is never easy, is it? Fighting against relegation the season before Matty signed, then needing victory against Alfreton in the hopes of Barnet slipping up, and now this. This is more complicated. This requires ridiculous amounts of luck and half of it is out of their hands. Matty thinks his heart might explode with the tension.

It’s edgy in the Mem, 20 minutes gone and already a goal at each end. All these missed chances, Rory and then Matty himself. Cris, Billy, Locks. It’s opportunity after opportunity, meter off, inch off, woodwork: all missed.

Matty can’t be sure he won't cry if they don't win and it costs them promotion. Accrington are being held at home to Stevenage at half time. They might actually have a chance, and if they fuck it-

Macca takes the motivational speech duties. Darrell looks too nervous to speak, let alone make it coherent and Skip gallantly steps up.

He stands on the bench and looks over at them. Matty glances at the clock. 10 minutes to go.

“Remember two years ago? Some of yous will, most of yous won’t. But i’ll remind yous anyway. We had to draw. That’s all we _fuckin’_ had to do.” Macca pauses, swallows. It looks like anger. “And we didn’t. Missed chance after missed fuckin’ chance, and we didn’t take none of ‘em. And the fans booed us off the pitch and were all aggy wi’ the police and we deserved it. But you know what hurt the most? The ones who were fuckin’ crying. The ones with the blank faces, fuckin’ _distraught_ .” There aren’t tears in his eyes, but it’s not far off. “But they didn’t give up on us, did they? They were with us in non-league. Took 30 thousand to Wembley. Fuckin’ loyal them lot are. You know what they fuckin’ deserve? The world. We can’t give ‘em that, so they might have to settle for a win. But you know what? If that win means promotion then they will be fuckin’ elated. It’s the least they deserve.” Macca claps his hands together and points towards the changing room door. “What we’re gonna do is go out there and bloody _fight_ for it. Defend for our lives. Attack like it’s the last chance we’ll get. Be ruthless. Because you know who else deserves it? You lot.”

Macca jumps down. “Have a piss, put on some deodorant, and let’s fuckin’ _do it.”_

They fucking do it. They’re not ruthless, they don’t win easy. Dagenham fight for lives even if there’s nothing left for them. Cousins is unreal, blocks every shot imaginable and Matty’s thinking of asking if he fancies a league club, once this is all over.

But they do it. In typical Rovers fashion, late and so nearly heartbreaking, but they do it. Matty is as guilty as anyone else, on the bar, on the post, inches off. Doesn’t care anymore because Browner almost broke the net with his strike, and Stevenage did them a favour and all is right in the world.

The changing room smells of sweat and booze and victory, of these lads. Die hard and incredible, all so fucking stunning. Matty’s never known anything like it. The comradery, the companionship, forged out of disaster and wonderful success. This club. Shoddy and tinpot and a bit of a state, but it’s _theirs._ Matty’s now, he supposes.

A roar goes up; Matty turns to the source and Danny is tapping the tv screen in the corner. In bold and yellow: Bristol Rovers, 3rd. _Promoted._

League One, here we fucking come.

  


**2017.**

On the 31st of January 2017, eight hours from the deadline, Matty Taylor puts on a red shirt and declares himself City.

Grins at the camera, shakes Lee Johnson’s hand and scribbles his name on the dotted line. Lets the cameras follow him around as he gets the tour of Ashton Gate. Matty isn’t gas anymore. Won’t ever be gas again. He’s red now. A robin. A robin-robin-robin- _robin._

(Doesn’t feel right in his mouth yet but it will, soon. He hopes to god and anyone else listening that it will all be fine.)

Matty stops in the middle of the changing room and swallows but he can’t seem to get rid of the lump in his throat. He inhales through his nose, exhales out his mouth, just like Darrell taught him. Darrell. Jesus. A sudden rush of regret floods his bloodstream. Shakes his head.

“Mind if i nip to the loo gaffer?” Matty asks, gesturing out towards the corridor.

Lee nods, smiling happily. Has exactly what he wants, Matty supposes. “Course. First door on the right. No rush.”

His voice is so… light, Matty thinks absentmindedly strolling out of the room and down the corridor. Nothing like Darrell’s gruff, Nottinghamshire accent that could command a room with a single word. Matty can’t imagine Johnson commanding a rubber duck let alone a group of twenty somethings- _stop._ That is your new manager, your new boss. Have a bit of respect.

Inside the toilets, Matty closes the door and leans back, rests the crown of his head on the wood and breathes deeply. He can do this. He chose this, be damned the hatred that will come his way.

(Fucking idiot. He can’t begrudge the Rovers fans of their determined hostility. Johnson says to ignore it, he’s done the best thing and that they’re just _jealous_ , or something along those lines. Matty wants to believe him, can’t really bring himself to. He spent three years with those fans. They have a right to anger.)

He splashes some cold water on his face and looks up into the mirror. He plasters on a fake grin and mutters to himself.

“It’s fucking showtime.”

  


Only a few hours later, they bring him out at halftime in front of 17,000. He’s paraded around with a slippery shirt in between his hands, proudly stating **Taylor - 10**.

It’s been a dull affair of a first half, one apiece between City and Wednesday, and this is what the fans have really been waiting for. Hyped up for Matty Taylor after an afternoon of taunting the blue side of Bristol: their co-workers, their classmates, their friends. Matty feels alive with the buzz of a packed stadium, more than Rovers could ever even imagine at a home game. (He feels guilty just for thinking it. Ellis still plays at that ground. Ollie. Locks. Gos. His _mates_.)

_Matty Taylor is a red, is a red, is a red. Matty Taylor is a red, he hates Rovers!_

Matty grins toothily. Marlon and Jamie clap his shoulder their way to the bench, muttering some variety of, “Congrats mate.”

He thinks he could get used to this.

  


**2018.**

Matty Taylor has never been one to shy away from confrontation. It’s not his style. So when Billy Bodin calls him up and asks him to meet in some unknown pub along the Bath Road, he decides that only a coward would decline.

He hasn’t spoke to Billy since last summer, not out of malice or intention, there merely hasn’t been the opportunity. Matty misses him sometimes, him and Ollie and Manse and Clarkey and _Ellis._ (Would miss Ells more if he didn’t see him every other week, but he misses him in the changing room, before matches, celebrating wins with. He just _misses_ them.)

The Old Crown is a surprisingly warm, clean pub in a tiny village called Kelston. Matty wonders how Billy even knows about it, wonders more how he himself managed to find it. Still, Matty winds his way through the tables and settles himself opposite Billy in a corner booth.

Bill startles and drops the phone he was previously engrossed in. “Jesus Tayls. Bit of warning would be nice.”

Matty snorts. “You would’ve noticed if you hadn’t been staring at that phone of yours.” He reaches out and taps the abandoned phone, tuts loudly. “Teenagers these day, eh?”

 Billy rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. “Piss off.”

He looks restless, hands shaking on top of the glossy wood table, and he clutches his hand with the other. “Do you want a drink? Or are you not drinking?”

Matty narrows his eyebrows at him, unsure whether Billy is avoiding whatever reason he brought him all the way here for on purpose or if he genuinely want to have a drink. “I’ll have half a pint of Thatch. If you’re paying that is?”

“Yeah, yeah i am.” Billy murmurs, fumbling for his wallet and sliding out of the bench.

Billy’s always been a strange one, as close to Matty as you can get without being Ellis, but reserved a lot, still does clearly. As Matty watches him approach the bar, greet the bartender with a smile and a, “Luke! How’s it been mate? How’s your mum?”, he wonders whether Billy comes here a lot.

The bartender answer backs with a dopey grin and familiar laughter, and Matty thinks, _yes. Yes he probably does._

One day later, on the 3rd of January, Preston North End announce the permanent signing of Billy Bodin from Bristol Rovers. Matty texts him a _good luck_ message with a thumbs up tagged on the end. Says, _you’re doing the right thing pal. You’re too good for League One._ (Code for, _too good for Bristol Rovers._ )

He sounds like Johnson. He _knows_ that. Pretends it doesn’t bother him.

Swallows back a wave of nausea and pulls his phone out and calls Josh Brownhill. “You alright mate? Yeah, yeah. Yeah, d’you fancy going for a drink? No, i know a place. It’s quiet as well. Down towards Bath. No, yeah i’ll pick you up. Alright, see you in a bit.”

He slides the phone back into his pocket and ignores the feeling that he’s ruined something.

  


 

**2019.**

Bolton Wanderers at home. Nearly 20,000 in attendance. 1-0 down. Matty feels like pulling his hair out and in front of him, Lee actually is.

It’s nearly been two years since he signed for City. It’s part of him now, The Gate and South Bristol. Bleeds red, literally and metaphorically, as opposed to when he was Rovers, blue blood metaphorically running through his veins. Well, no need to worry about that now because it is safe to say that Horfield has been flushed out of his system.

Matty loves City, loves it like he loved Rovers and maybe even a bit more.

Johnson brings him and Jay on for Lloyd and Jamie. Matty feels a rush of adrenaline flood him as he jogs onto the pitch, keen to get going.

He scores within two minutes. Buries his head in Callum’s neck and lets the noise of the crowd rush over him like a crashing wave.

_Matty Taylor is a red, is a red, is a red._

Yeah. Yeah he fucking is.

**Author's Note:**

> so ive got very complicated feelings towards matty taylor, two thirds absolute hatred and one third pure nostalgia. the old crown is actually a pub on bath road in kelston but ive never been so i dont know if it actually is clean and warm. implied relationship between ellis and matty but not one i could really be arsed to explore so that my lazinesses fault loool.
> 
> anyway thank u for reading lovlies! 
> 
> xx eve


End file.
